


Winter's Game

by Raegaryen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Eventual War for the Dawn, F/M, Falling In Love, I'll clean this when it isn't 3 in the am, Incest, Loss, Love, Motherhood, Multi, Politics, Post-Season/Series 06, Pregnancy, R Plus L Equals J, Season 7/8 Rewrite, Slow Burn, Smut, The Prince That Was Promised, and then like plenty of my own headcanons, ish, mix of book and show canon, trying to have a baby-to-lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:48:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28007217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raegaryen/pseuds/Raegaryen
Summary: Daenerys Targaryen has finally returned to Westeros. She and her allies plot on from Dragonstone, but their plans are uncertain at best and one thing is clear: to cement her rule in the Seven Kingdoms, she will need an undisputed heir. Daenerys's heart aches for the son she has already lost and the children she knows she cannot have.Meanwhile, Jon Snow has been made King in the North, and he is growing more sure by the day that his people will not survive the Long Night. Desperate to keep humanity from the brink of destruction, he is willing to make nearly any deal for a chance at survival.The Lord of Light has a solution for them both: Daenerys will only be able to conceive a child with Jon. Daenerys gets her child and heir, and Jon gets the alliance he desperately needs.--Ok I hate this summary and most likely will change it soon, but it's 3 am so whatever. Basically this started as a crack fic based on the idea that Dany can only have a baby with Jon cause like magic Valyrian blood or something, and then it just...exploded? and now it's a super long slow burn with battles and loosely canon based lore and politics everywhere.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 36
Kudos: 125





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hoooo boy
> 
> This is the longest thing I've ever written, and it's only chapter one. It is 25 pages long. I don't know about y'all but that is a lot for me. It is also not edited cause editing is the bane of my existence and I hate it. I mean, I'll do it eventually, but I'd rather just get the gratification now instead of later.
> 
> First things first: this is thoroughly a jonerys fic! There will be no bashing of Jon or Dany because we love and respect both of them in this house! There will also not be any bashing of Sansa! We also love and respect her in this house! I do not understand why people in this fandom can't love all three at the same time, or how it got that way, but I love all of them and I am making it everyone else's problem from here on out :)
> 
> I don't enjoy how the characterization and story lines ended for literally all of the characters in game of thrones, so I am throwing out the last two seasons and doing what I want. You can expect me to pick and choose what I like from show! and book!canon for the characters and then kind of twist it till I like it, so really just lean back and enjoy the ride lol
> 
> I will also probably fix this to be more coherent later, but it is legit 3 am and coffee I drank to churn the last ten pages of this out is fading faaaast 
> 
> Ummm, if you want clarification or have a question, just ask, I don't bite unless you want me to.
> 
> As always, please fulfill my need for gratification and drop a comment, a kudos, or visit me on my [tumblr](https://raegaryen.tumblr.com). I am needy and want interaction. Ty xoxo :)  
> Rae

Wind howled over the island, accompanied by the ever increasing crash of waves against stone to produce a dark, thunderous chorus. No matter where one stood, whether in the castle or out of it, the sound of the growing storm could not be escaped. Lightning flashed rapidly across the starless sky, violently illuminating the jagged grey clouds for a few seconds at a time, only to leave an abyss of darkness after. The fall of rain seemed as if it would never stop, and on this night it poured with a ferocity like many had never before seen. It cut down in heavy sheets, sharp against the uncovered skin of those who dared to leave shelter. The drops were cold, not quite cold enough to become snow or hail, but frigid enough to leave a chill that ached the bones. It seemed as though the island itself was shrieking in revolt, like it was indignant that its new inhabitants had dared to bother it. It was not a welcoming feeling.

The black stone of the walls did not help Tyrion think kindly of Dragonstone. They always had a slightly cool feel, even on the rare sunny day when the island could get unbearably humid.They were somber and foreboding, almost unnatural in the way that some presence seemed to cling to them. There was always a slight feeling of being watched in Dragonstone, as if the walls were staring down at each passerby with disapproving eyes. It unsettled him in a way he found he was not used to.

Shuffling further back into his seat, the dwarf refocused on the people around him, turning from his dark thoughts. He sat in the council room of Dragonstone, seated just to the side of the head of the great painted table. His queen stood facing the open wall at the back of the room, as she was wont to do at meetings like this. She liked having the fresh air on her face, she’d told him only a few days prior, when he’d asked about the new habit. Their allies were seated in various positions around the table, each dining lightly on the refreshments her Grace had sent for. 

“The storm has yet to let up,” came the Queen’s voice. She sounded thoughtful, lacking the usual sternness her tone held, “One of the villagers told Qhobo that this is unusual, even for how temperamental the weather can be.”

“Perhaps the island is welcoming you home, your Grace,” Varys, at the other end of the room so as to be close to the fire, spoke. “Perhaps it remembers your birth.”

“Ah, yes. Stormborn is one of your titles, isn’t it? One of the many, I believe.” The quick fingers of Lady Olenna picked at the pastry in front of her. The elderly woman wore her impatience about her constantly, like a gilded cloak, just as dry and acerbic tonight as she usually was. Once, Tyrion had worried how the Queen would react to the Tyrell woman’s barely hidden impertinence to all other people, but it seemed he had no cause to. The two women seemed to share some odd kinship, or at the very least Daenerys seemed to be fond of the brilliant older Lady. 

Silence fell for a beat more before the Queen turned to face the table. She raised her eyes to meet the gaze of the others in the room. Varys remained the furthest away, having sequestered himself into one of the chairs by the hearth some time before. His face was as smooth and placid as always, but the slight downturn of his lips and the shiver that raced across his shoulders every so often betrayed his discomfort in the cold.

Ellaria Sand reclined as far from the windows as possible, trying to avoid the cold gusts of air and rain in her layered silk gown. Her posture was the epitome of languid relaxation, but her eyes were hard with tension and weariness. She was still a beauty, to be sure, but the past year had taxed her immensely, and she had begun to look old and faded.

Next to her, sat a young man with blonde hair and dark blue eyes. Edric Dayne was the future lord of Starfall, sent to Dragonstone on behalf of his father, the current head of house Dayne. When he had arrived, the boy had spoke of squiring for his Aunt’s betrothed, Ser Beric Dondarrion. He’d said that he’d seen many strange things while following the knight through the Brotherhood without Banners, but that Ser Beric had sent him home to bid tale to his father of the Dragon Queen’s coming. The elder Lord Dayne’s response had been to send his son to Dragonstone, to represent his house in all matters and swear fealty to the Queen.Tyrion did not have much of an opinion on the shy Dornishman one way or the other, truth be told, but the boy was already proving to be earnestly loyal to the Targaryen cause, and surprisingly bright. 

Across the table from them, sat the Lady Olenna, and next to her, her grandson Willas. After the destruction of the Sept of Baelor, they were the only remaining members of the Reach’s ruling house, along with Lord Willas’ brother Garlan and mother, Lady Alerie. Lady Olenna had left Garlan to run Highgarden and summoned her eldest grandchild to join her in Dragonstone, to aid in advising the Queen, as Willas was known to be quite an intelligent and learned man. Really, Tyrion suspected that Olenna was scheming up a plot to marry Daenerys and her grandson, so that House Tyrell may still one day end up with a golden rose on the throne.

In between Edric and Daenerys was Yara Greyjoy, who had elected to stand like the queen. Even in the quiet, the Iron Islander’s face was fierce. She seemed as though she was ready to fight at all times, ready to fly into a berserker rage at the first sign of battle. For all the savagery of her posture and expression, the woman had proven to be a clever strategist. 

Missandei sat just to the left of the Queen, closer to her than any of the others. Tyrion still found himself startled but how still the former slave girl could be, looking for all the world like a statue or a doll until she would move again. It was odd, too, he thought, that even with all the chaos of the storm, she exuded the same sense of calm peacefulness she near always held. He wondered at times if it was a Naathi trait, or simply a result of practice. 

Grey Worm, standing as a silent sentinel behind the two women, also had an unnerving stillness about him, but in a way that differed greatly from that of Missandei. Where Missandei’s stillness was tranquil and soft, the Unsullied man’s was like that of a taut string-unmoving, but with the energy ready to be unleashed at any moment. While there had yet to be much talking in the meeting, Grey Worm was completely silent, and it was expected that he would neglect to speak at all.

Perhaps the strangest and most unexpected person in the chamber was the Red Priestess. Although she was sat at the table, in the space between Missandei and Lord Willas, her whole upper body was twisted so she could stare into the flames of the hearth. She was Kinvara, the First Servant of the Lord of Light, and she’d followed the Targaryen host to Westeros, claiming that she wished to be there, should her Lord’s chosen have need of her. Lord Edric had been greatly intimidated by her at their first meeting, when she had made a strange, but gentle, remark about Ser Beric in that offhand way of hers. About a fortnight before the start of the storm, she’d become even stranger than the inhabitants of Dragonstone had gotten used to, cryptically telling Queen Daenerys that a messenger was travelling to the island to deliver grand news. She had not spoken much since. Now, in the presence of the rest of the council, she kept her gaze locked on the flames, a serene smile on her lips.

“If this storm continues,” Ellaria spoke up, “We have not much hope for getting  _ off _ this island anytime soon, nor taking King’s Landing. Is that not why we are here? To get that lion bitch off the throne?” The scowl that never seemed to leave her only deepened in irritation.

“Her Grace wishes to take all of Westeros, not just King’s Landing. The capital and the throne will not mean much if the great houses do not follow her.” Tyrion leaned forward, running his fingers over the edge of the table. He watched as Daenerys surveyed the lands depicted on the table stoically, idley tracing her own fingers across the border in a similar fashion. He spoke again, “We’ll have to start with the West-taking Casterly Rock would severely limit Cersei’s allies and resources. The lords of the Westerlands are not a particularly loyal folk. They only truly followed my father for fear of the consequences if they did not heed his orders. They follow Cersei out of a lack of anyone else, and the knowledge that she is Tywin’s daughter. If we can show them that our Targaryen queen is stronger than their Lannister one, in both wealth and power, they will change their allegiance swiftly. ”

Lady Olenna snorted. “Taking Casterly Rock will not be enough to win all of the Westerlands, Lord Tyrion. You’re right to think that the lords there do not hold much stock in loyalty, but you underestimate their collective arrogance. Every western lord thinks himself to be better than all his fellows. If we simply take Casterly Rock by force, they will test and push at the limits of their new overseer until they discover all that they can get away with. The West commands a stern hand, one willing to deal swift punishment, or they will run wild as they did before your father assumed his lordship.”

“Yet we cannot allow for Cersei to continue receiving support from her allies there, can we? If we take Casterly Rock, even without truly controlling the West, we could weaken her enough to make removing her easier.” Lord Edric said, eyebrows creased in confusion. 

“That is true,” Lord Willas was leaned forward in his seat, “but leaving the Westerlands without some form of control would lead to a shaky start for her Grace’s reign. It would allow for the lords to scheme of rebellion before she is even crowned, which would further encourage the other kingdoms to do the same. It is not a chance to be taken lightly.”

“I do not understand why we waste our time speaking of Casterly Rock or the West. Why do we need to cut Cersei from her allies when we can simply take King’s Landing? The plan should be simple-Queen Daenerys can take her dragons to the capitol and burn the fucking city to the ground, with Cersei right along with it.” Ellaria snarled, slamming her hand against the table. “No little lords would dare move against her after that! Who would be stupid enough to rebel against the woman who can destroy them in an instant?”

“Well, some of us take issue to burning millions of innocent people alive,” Tyrion drawled. He was losing his patience with the Dornish woman. Every conversation with her ended with demands for the swift and absolute destruction of King’s Landing. Ellaria did not seem to care about anything other than seeing Cersei suffer, damn anyone else who got caught in the crossfire. 

Daenerys, who had remained quiet thus far, spoke up as she took her seat. “I understand you want justice, my lady, and believe me when I say I plan to deliver it. However, I do not intend to punish people who have had no part in the wrongdoings of those in power. Cersei Lannister is responsible for the crimes against you and yours, not the smallfolk in the city. I will not be laying waste to King’s Landing.” Her tone was resolute. 

Yara Greyjoy leaned heavily against the table. “I understand your hesitance, your Grace, but how will we take the throne if we do not attack the city?” 

Tyrion had noticed that the severe woman rarely spoke any dissent against Daenerys. To be sure, there were times when the two women did not see eye to eye, but Yara was careful to never argue with the queen in front of others in council. Tyrion appreciated the cunning in the action-Yara made sure to show that she was utterly loyal to her queen, and would not allow any chance for anyone to try to doubt that. It was a smart decision, one that assured Daenerys, a woman rightfully wary of betrayal such as she had so often experienced in the past, that Yara could be trusted.

Daenerys began to speak. “It is not that I do not plan to attack the capitol, but that I hope I will have no need of my dragons or their flames to take it. I won’t start my reign in Westeros amidst the funeral pyre of my people. But my Lord Hand and the Lord Willas are right; to be queen of the Seven Kingdoms, I will need all the kingdoms. We will take them one by one, and the high lords will bend the knee to their rightful queen. Once we have done this, King’s Landing will be taken and Cersei Lannister shall face justice for her crimes.”

“‘The high lords will bend the knee’?” Ellaria scoffed, “The high lords are stubborn fools. They will see a pretty girl proclaiming herself Queen and laugh. You expect them to follow you? Just like that?”

The corners of Daenerys’ mouth tightened, “They  _ will _ kneel. The lords will learn that they can live in my new world, or die in their old one.”

There was a beat of silence, then Lady Olenna sighed. “It’s a good start. Having all seven kingdoms backing you would weaken Cersei’s position incredibly, and you would already be the true queen besides. It would give you the most stability to start your reign. Of the kingdoms themselves, you already have the Reach, while your control of Dorne is uncertain at best.” At the Queen’s look, the elder lady clarified, “You have what the Sand woman brought you, my Queen, which is a large part of the military might of their land. But neither she nor her Sand Snakes can rule Dorne, and I have no doubt that many of the Dornish lords are merely lying in wait, as is their wont. You must provide a unifying figure to truly rally all of Dorne to your side and cement their alliance. Elevating someone to be the Prince of Dorne could gain you their loyalty, and through them, the rest of the kingdom.”

“So her Grace must name a new leader of Dorne, someone who the lords will know enough to trust and follow,” Missandei said, hands folded on her lap, “but the Martells are all gone. Who else could be chosen?”

“But not all of them are gone!” Lord Edric said suddenly. Everyone seemed startled, if a bit perplexed, but his sudden interjection. “Forgive me, my lady, but not  _ all _ the Martells are gone. I’ve heard some say that the Princess Arianne still lives.”

“Princess Arianne? I thought she had disappeared, a short time after Prince Quentyn’s death. From what I heard, everyone assumed she’d died when the Sand Snakes took Dorne.” Tyrion said scornfully.

“My girls would have never hurt Arianne. The princess has always loved her cousins fiercely, and they love her back just the same. If she was hurt, it was not by our hands.” Ellaria scowled again. 

Varys leaned forward. “There have been some rumors of the Princess Arianne’s survival, but none substantial enough to follow through on. Most I’ve heard were quite fanciful, and as such I did not think much of them. If it pleases you, your Grace, I can have my little birds dig deeper.”

Daenerys nodded. “Let us hope that no harm has come to her.”

“If she lives, I’ve not had word from her.” Ellaria said. “Before we took Dorne, I spoke with Arianne. She supported our plan, was even helping us. Arianne always agreed with Oberyn when he’d speak of retribution for Elia and her children. I know she argued with her father on the topic often. After Oberyn’s murder, she pushed for Dorne to move against the Lannisters, but Doran wouldn’t even listen to her.”

“Perhaps when your girls shoved a spear through her brother, the Princess lost some of her faith in your cause.” Lady Olenna sniped, waving her hand dismissively. 

The tense pressure of the room spiked immediately. Ellaria’s eyes sparked, a snarl growing across her face. Her fingers curled around the arms of her chair before flinging herself to her feet. Across the table, Lady Olenna smirked in the face of her anger while Willas’s hand went to his belt.

Tyrion dropped his head to his palm, rubbing his temples to assuage his newest headache. There was yelling already; Ellaria was raging at Olenna for being a ‘thorny bitch’ while the elder woman continued on with her show of not giving a single damn about anyone she thought beneath her. Yara, annoyed with the fight, began yelling for them both to shut up, which of course made them furious at being spoken to so disrespectfully. Even Lord Willas’s endless patience was tested as he tried to settle the argument. 

“Enough!” The Queen’s voice was sharp over the din. “These petty arguments do nothing for us. We cannot waste our time squabbling with each other when our foes will hunt for any weakness to exploit. If you cannot control your tempers and refrain from goading each other, then I will dismiss you all and find myself better advisors who  _ can.” _

“Your Grace, our most earnest apologies,” Lord Willas spoke softly, watching as Daenerys rubbed a hand over her brow.

“No, I’ve said enough. It has become late, and I fear I am losing my patience. We are done for the night. You may all leave.” The Queen waved her hand at them, dismissing them from the room and waiting as they left one by one.

Tyrion pushed himself up in his seat, having slouched in his fatigue. Just a few short months ago, he would have never imagined that he would be staring at the Painted Table- _ Aegon’s  _ Painted Table-planning the re-conquest of Westeros with the last living Targaryen. He’d never even been to Dragonstone before, towering monstrosity of intimidating black stone that it was, but the Queen seemed comfortable here, in a way she hadn’t been in Meereen. Of course, she was tired, as they were all so very tired, but the stone facade she’d worn in Essos wasn’t so thick here, and he thought, perhaps, that she was letting herself feel more of her own vulnerability, now that she was so close to her dreams. 

Even now, after everyone else had gone, until only herself and Tyrion left in the vastness of the room, Grey Worm standing sentry at the door, she seemed smaller. Not so grand and otherworldly as she had when he’d first met her. Granted, she was no longer sitting on a throne however many steps above him, but there was a marked difference in her now. Perhaps he was...getting to know her.

Daenerys dropped her hand from her temples, and in a decidedly  _ not  _ regal move, stalked over to the fire and collapsed into one of the cushioned chairs with a  _ humph _ . Tyrion thought idly she sounded rather like Drogon when she did that.

Pushing himself out of his chair, Tyrion grabbed a carafe of wine and two of the glass goblets from the table. He shuffled over to the fire, stretching his sore back as he moved. He poured one glass for Daenerys, and then a larger one for himself, and handed hers over.

She took it gingerly. “You know, I don’t think I like this wine. It’s bitter.”

“Doesn’t matter. Wine is wine, and it all has the lovely effect of numbing the senses after a day like today. So,’’ He raised the glass in mock cheer, “drink up.”

Daenerys laughed a little, then raised her own glass. After a few timid sips, she leaned forward. “Why must they do that? We have work to do, there are lives at stake, and yet I find that most of my time is occupied in solving silly little insult matches. It’s like they’re all children!”

“Ah, heavy is the head that wears the crown, is it not?”

She pouted at him. “I feel as if I’m wrangling wet cats.”

“Ha! Yes, that is...unfortunately rather accurate. Angry, wet cats who all hate each other for no other reason than having to occasionally share the same bowl of milk.”

“I don’t even  _ like _ cats.”

Her petulant tone made him snort. Gulping down another mouthful of wine, he asked, “Do you have anything against cats?”

Daenerys cut a glance at him and sighed. “Not particularly, no. It’s just that...have you ever noticed that house cats tear everything to shreds?” At Tyrion’s inquisitive sound, she continued. “There was one in Illyrio Mopatis’ manse. Everytime he would gift my brother with some new silk tunic or what have you, Viserys would find it ripped apart with the cat sitting on it by the next day. It drove him to distraction, that cat.”

Tyrion watched as she frowned down at her glass and twisted it around her fingers. She’d get like this, sometimes, if someone mentioned some past event. Staring into nothing, as if there were some things only she could see, with a far away look in her eyes. 

“You don’t talk of him often. Your brother, I mean.” Tyrion clarified. He felt as if he was holding his breath-he’d never dared speak of Viserys before. He wasn’t entirely sure of what she thought of the late prince. In the few rare times he’d ever heard her speak of him, she’d called him cruel. Once, she’d said he was mad, which was not a word she threw around lightly. And yet, one of her dragons, one of her precious children was named in honor of the same man. He wasn’t sure if mentioning him would be enough to ignite her temper.

He’d taken the time to piece together a timeline of Daenerys' history shortly before he became her hand, and had figured that Viserys’ death was some time around Tyrion’s confinement in the Vale. News of his passing would have likely reached Westeros right as the War of the Five kings started, but of course Tywin had been much too preoccupied with defeating Robb Stark and despising his own son to inform Tyrion of the last male heir of the Targaryen dynasty’s demise. Before he'd ever met the Queen, Tyrion had heard many different tales of her brother’s end. He’d been told in passing from Varys when he arrived in King's Landing, but the Spymaster hadn’t given any details. Some braggart knight had loudly spread around some story of the Prince being ripped apart by Dothraki savages and eaten, citing that he’d been told by his ‘many friends in Essos’, but he was about as credible as a rabid dog and no one took him seriously. One of the numerous Tyrell cousins had delighted in telling anyone who would listen that Daenerys herself had beheaded her brother in a fit of manic rage and gifted his head to her horselord husband, but Tyrion hadn’t believed that nonsense then and certainly didn’t now. The closest he’d ever gotten to a real answer was after Ser Jorah Mormont had kidnapped him. After pushing each other close to their limits, they’d finally come to a point where they could have a conversation without wanting to kill each other. When Tyrion had asked what truly happened to the late Prince, Jorah had merely grimaced and said that it’d been a horrible end for a horrible man.

“Of Viserys? I suppose I don’t.” Her voice was soft, almost whisper quiet. So not anger then, Tyrion thought. Just more of that distant sadness. Somewhere in between guilt and grief.

He waited for her to say more, or to say anything really, but she remained silent. He watched her for a moment, following the movement of her eyes as she gazed at the carved walls. Mentioning Viserys might not have angered her, but Tyrion knew that he was going to say next would, without a doubt, upset her. He gulped down the rest of his wine, then spoke.

“Your Grace, if I may, although we have made much progress in our plans to take Westeros, there are some things, very important things, that we must discuss if we truly want to secure your place as Queen.” That was...not the smoothest transition he could have done. Perhaps the wine was stronger than he’d thought. 

Daenerys turned to look at him fully, setting down her glass. “Such as what, Lord Tyrion?”

A deep breath, then, “Heirs, your Grace.”

Tyrion could see her ire immediately. Her brows furrowed, and her lips became pinched. She folded her hands together in her lap, clenching her fingers around each other tightly. He’d known her for long enough now to recognize that move-if her hands were clasped in her lap, palms together, she was being polite and listening to you. If she rested her hands on her thighs, one over the other, she was humoring you and just waiting for you to be done. But if her hands were like this, fisted together with fingers intertwined, it meant she was angry. Angry, but controlling her temper. 

Seizing her momentary silence as an opportunity, Tyrion continued quickly. “The realms have known great instability for some time now, and by now the high Lords will want a sense of security more than anything. They will be reluctant to follow you if they can’t see what you will leave after you. If you take the Seven Kingdoms now, you won’t be the Queen in truth-every Lord will be putting in plans and pulling strings to ensure the survival of their house beyond you. They will see you as a placeholder. Here now, yes, but the moment you’re gone, the throne will be up for grabs and a free-for-all like the War of the Five Kings will happen again, and everyone will know it. You must have a clear, decisive line of succession to secure your successful rule in Westeros. There’s no other way.”

“We have had this conversation, Tyrion.” Her jaw was tight.

“We’ve mentioned the topic, your Grace, on occasion. And yet we’ve never finished it. I’m merely concerned with the thought of what will come after you-”

“For a man who has pledged his loyalty to me, you are awfully concerned with what you’ll do when I am dead.” She hissed coldly.

Tyrion flinched back in shock. The insinuation was obvious, and damning. Did she truly think such a thing of him? 

“My Queen,” he murmured lowly, “My Queen, you  _ know  _ I am loyal to you, and only you. I swear that I have no motives, no goals to do such a thing.”

“No, no, Tyrion. You don’t need to-I am sorry,” Daenerys interrupted before he could continue. Her whole body sagged, one hand coming up to rub at her temples. “It is an emotional subject for me, and I fear I am overly sensitive about it. I should have never said that to you, and it was irrational and a cruel thing to say. I trust your loyalty. You have my apologies.”

Tyrion breathed a sigh of relief, but was still unsettled. He poured himself another cup of wine. “That’s quite alright, your Grace. I should know better than to push you.”

She huffed. “It’s not alright, and you know it. Besided, I chose you as my Hand because I knew you’d push me. It’s a large part of why I value you so.”

In times like these, Tyrion was forcibly reminded of how living under his nephew’s rule had been. Joffrey had been known for his horrible temper, and Tyrion would have not been surprised if the boy had made a similar accusation in his paranoia. What really struck him though, was the difference between the two rulers. In the face of Daenerys anger, he’d had the sudden feeling that he must step lightly, a feeling he’d had many times around people like Joffrey or Cersei, for fear of the physical backlash of wrath. But instead, where Joffrey would have cut out someone’s tongue, the young Dragon Queen had  _ apologized.  _ Not only that, she had acknowledged what she’d said was groundless and cruel, and admitted her fault. 

Tyrion would admit freely that he feared her rage. She had the temper of a dragon, swift and terrible, but this was something she was aware of herself in. Daenerys knew the danger her fury posed, and actively worked to not let it control her. She could end the war in a few nights, he knew, could climb atop Drogon and set flame to every major hold from the Summer Sea to the Wall, and no one would be able to stop her. And yet, she didn’t.

He startled lightly when she spoke again. “You’re right, of course. We must have this conversation, and the only reason we’ve not is the fault of my avoidance. But if we are to speak of this, you need to know all the factors.”

Daenerys took a large drink from her cup, then turned to fully face the fire, her back uncomfortably straight. Tyrion could only see part of her profile, but the stone mask he’d thought she’d abandoned in Essos seemed to have settled into her facade once again. She took a deep breath, then spoke.

“I am unable to have children, Lord Hand. I will never bear or birth another child.”

“I-what?”

“A maegi cursed me to be barren, long ago.”

He blinked. “Forgive me, your Grace, I do not mean to be insensitive, but I was under the impression that you...birthed a son?”

If at all possible, she tensed more. “I was cursed after.”

“Ah,” he nodded, for lack of anything else to do. What in the seven hells was he supposed to do with this information? A fucking curse? She honestly believed she was  _ cursed?  _ “And, uh, how do you know? That you are,” Tyrion waved a hand vaguely, “cursed?”

“I know.”

“Yes, of course, but how-”

“I’ve not had a child since then.”

“And-”

“And yet I’ve not been  _ alone _ since then, Lord Tyrion.”

“Ahhh,” Tyrion deliberately looked away from her, unwilling to have a conversation about his queen’s...bedroom activities...with her. Really though, he argued with himself, who was he to doubt her word on a curse, of all things? This was a woman who had literally brought dragons back to life from petrified stone. If anyone could have the authority on magic and whatnot, he supposed it would be her. So, fine. If she said she was cursed, then she was cursed.

“I’m aware this makes things difficult,” Daenerys said.

“Well, yes,” Tyrion replied, “but not impossible. There have been rulers in the past who have chosen their heirs outside a family bloodline. Someone will have to be chosen as the one who will carry on your legacy. A child, of noble blood, who you can mentor to carry on your legacy. It will be more difficult, your Grace. I won’t lie to you. But it is not impossible.”

The Queen stayed quiet, and Tyrion saw that once again, that distant, sad look was back in her eyes. He let the silence hang heavy between them, awkward and uncomfortable. This revelation would have to be something he thought on extensively. The matter of an heir was no longer simply a matter of finding a suitable husband for her, it was now a far more political matter. Daenerys’ barrenness weakened her position, and Tyrion had no doubt that her enemies would use it as a weapon against her claim. Finding a child who would one day rule after her was a daunting task-not only would they have to trust their judgement in finding a child who could grow to be a fine ruler, but it would also establish the new ruling dynasty of Westeros. Even if they gave the child the Targaryen name, the child’s House would be the ones truly in power. This was going to be a problem.

Tyrion failed to notice the passing time, too absorbed in his musings, until Daenerys stood and he hurried to do the same.

“I apologize, Lord Tyrion, but I believe we must be done here.” Daenerys said. “The hour grows late, and I do not think we’ll get anything more decided tonight.”

He could recognize the dismissal. “I will take my leave then, your Grace.” Tyrion rose, and left the room.

*

Daenerys entered into her bedchambers, waving away the servants who approached her, telling them she could take care of herself tonight. She’d found that she did not particularly enjoy their attentions, the monotonous routine of them coming in to undress her, unbind her hair, bathe her, and all the other steps to release her from the confines of regal queen until she was simply just another woman in a nightgown. It was uncomfortable, she supposed, to be seen like that, for them to look underneath the royal veneer and see her human vulnerability. 

She supposed she was spoiled, in a way, that she’d had Missandei by her side for so long now. The other woman was the only person Daenerys felt comfortable with in such situations, and she cherished all the times Missandei had meticulously braided her hair in Meereen. It was rare that they were able to take the time together to do such things now. Most mornings, the servants would rush into her rooms to prepare her for the day, with three of the young girls crowding around her head to quickly brush through her locks and pin them up as fast as possible.

Now, Daenerys moved to sit at the large dressing table in the corner of the vast chambers. As was tradition, she had taken the rooms that had once belonged to Aegon the Conqueror himself in the great Stone Drum. They were quite extensive, starting with the cavernous bedchamber, which had a private bathing room, a study, and a solar all directly attached, along with several smaller rooms that could be reached through the solar. Each room had a tall ceiling, and most had equally tall glass windows that were tinted dark, the likes of which Daenerys had never seen before. Though she had little use for most of the space, she was strangely fond of her apartments, finding them to be quite pleasant despite the harsh appearance and the near constant echoing sounds of storms. She knew many of the others in her council did not like this tower, thinking it too loud and intimidating, but she did not share their discomfort.

Sitting before the dressing table, Daenerys studied her reflection in the attached mirror. She wasn’t sure how old the furniture was, though she suspected it being fairly new due to its sturdiness. Sometimes, though, she would imagine her ancestors sitting in this same spot. She imagined a young Visenya Targaryen, sitting with her siblings, fierce and proud, planning their invasion. She thought of wise Jaehaerys and good Queen Alysanne, barely more than children, happily living together in peace, away from those who had tried to seperate them. She pictured Queen Rhaenyra, studying and planning a vicious crusade against her half-brother. And sometimes, on nights when she felt particularly tired and melancholy, Daenerys would peer into her reflection, run her fingertips across the lines of her face, and imagine her mother.

She’d been told, by a number of people, that she looked like the late Queen. So Daenerys would lean in closer and closer, stare hard into her own eyes, and wonder what they’d meant. Was it the slope of her nose? The shape of her eyes? Or perhaps it was the way the line of her jaw curved into her chin? She’d sit there, and she’d realize with a heavy heart, that she would never truly know. There were very few people alive with intimate knowledge of her mother. 

Had Rhaella sat here, all those years ago? Had she sat at this table, looking into her own reflection? Had she known that she was going to die? Did she press a hand to her belly, did she grieve for the baby she would never get to see grow?

Daenerys would never know.

She sighed, heavy and morose, and shook her head to rid herself of the thoughts. Daenerys reached over her shoulder, pulling the weight of her braid onto her chest and began to tug the various ribbons loose. As the ties came apart, she folded them carefully on top of one another in the little wooden box where they belonged. It had been a gift from Missandei when they left Meereen. Carefully, with practiced fingers, she unwove each braid and raked through the curls apart until her hair was falling around her shoulders completely unbound. Daenerys grasped the brush, and patiently ran it through each tress, from bottom to top. As she did, she became consumed with thoughts about her earlier conversation with Tyrion.

It had been unsettling, someone else speaking of Rhaego. Nearly no one else seemed to remember his existence, and to hear Tyrion mention him so unexpectedly had felt like a blade in her gut. She had known Tyrion was trying to speak to her of heirs for a while, but had purposely evaded the discussion time and time again, because she could not bear the pain of it. 

It was not simply the thought of an heir. It was not, as she had insinuated, the fear of someone working to depose her. It was the reminder of that feeling, that absolute, all encompassing love she’d felt for her son, and how she was never, ever going to be able to have it again. 

There had not been a day gone by that she didn’t think of him. There did not exist a single moment when she hadn’t felt the ache of his loss. Daenerys would forever be grateful for the birth of her dragons, and truly saw them as her own children, as if she had grown them in her womb, but even they could not fill the emptiness Rhaego had left in her heart. 

Daenerys couldn’t count the many hours she spent daydreaming of holding her boy in her arms. More than anything else, Daenerys had wanted to clutch him tight to her chest, take him to Braavos, to the house with the red door and raise him to know only peace. She could just imagine how fast he would have grown-he would have been tall and broad, just like his father-and how she could have spent all the time in the world teaching him their heritage. Teaching him how to speak Valyrian and Dothraki, how to write his letters and to learn his numbers. She’d wanted to see what he’d look like, what funny face he’d make when he first tasted the tartness of a lemon. She’d wanted all of it so, so badly.

What was worse, she’d wanted  _ more. _ Daenerys had secretly hoped to one day have a whole legion of children. She herself had grown up so lonely, fleeing for her life with a half mad brother for company. As a child, she’d watch siblings in the marketplaces, taunting and teasing and playing, as their harried parents hurried around and tried to corral their children. It had forever filled her with such intense longing, such envy to know what that sense of family was, or what it might feel like to know the love of a parent. It was a simple but unattainable want from an exiled orphan of a great dynasty.

And so when she’d discovered her pregnancy with Rhaego, she’d been filled with dreams of her little prince with plenty of little brothers and sisters to play with. She had imagined watching her children play games while holding a newborn in her arms, or them arguing over which bedtime story they wanted to hear that night. She’d known, even before everything fell apart, that it was an unrealistic dream. A life like that could not exist in a Dothraki khalasar. She knew that Rhaego, and other boys she might have, would be taken and raised away from her the moment they were no longer boys, and that any girl she had would have as little rights as she did, and would probably be sold by her brother just like Daenerys had been. It was an impossible dream, but that is the wonderful thing about dreams. They don’t need to be possible.

But in the end, life wasn’t a dream. Rhaego, like too many other babes, had been born in the midst of war and hatred. Her sweet, innocent boy had been corrupted by the same dark magic that had taken his father, created through rage and hatred in the lowest moments of a witch’s life. He’d been born tainted and twisted into a monstrous form, and had done nothing to warrant it. He, like  _ too many  _ other innocent babes, had suffered the consequences of choices those with power had made.

Daenerys would never, ever allow herself to forget that, nor would she ever forgive herself for not protecting her son.

Daenerys dropped the brush with a clatter, catching her face in her hands as sobs tore out of her chest. A stone pit settled in her throat, blocking her breath with painful tears. She hadn’t let herself think of Rhaego in so long. It was like ripping open a new wound right over a barely-healed scar.

A knock at the door caused her to gasp. She breathed deeply to clear her throat, swiping her hand under her eyes quickly and pushing her hair behind her shoulders. Straightening up into the severe posture of a Queen again was like sliding on a mask. 

“You may enter,” she called.

The door creaked open, and Daenerys saw Missandei’s face in the mirror’s reflection. She softened once again.

“Oh, it’s you. You can come in.” She turned to face the other woman, letting her shoulders drop as Missandei pushed the door shut again. “What’s going on?”

Missandei studied her with golden eyes, “You are upset?”

“I’m alright, really. There’s just been so much to think about,” she sniffed. At Missandei’s inquisitive, doubtful look, Daenerys crumbled a bit. “Lord Tyrion had concerns about heirs. I informed him of my...difficulties.”

Empathy and understanding bloomed across Missandei’s face. She hummed, “I’m sorry this hurts you, Your Grace. Memories of your son must be painful.”

Gods, Daenerys loved her. Missandei had never failed to understand exactly what she felt, never failed to be kind and caring. She was the most intelligent person Daenerys had ever met, and by some miracle, she’d chosen to follow her to a land she’d never known.

“This is not something I have experienced, but I have watched the pain of a lost child in others,” Missandei crossed the room to her and grasped her hands, “ but I know there is no pain like the suffering of a mother.”

Daenerys tried to sniff back her tears. “I’m not even a mother,” she said, “not truly. I lost him before he was really mine. I can’t call myself a mother-I have no children!”

Missandei was already shaking her head, emphatically. Her grip tightened. “No, that is not true. You are still-”

“Please, Missandei. I thank you for your kindness, but I cannot bear this. Not tonight.” Daenerys pulled her hands away, dashing away the few stray tears on her cheeks once again. She was a queen. She needed to  _ act _ like a Queen. “You came here to tell me something, I assume?”

Missandei studied her again, a heavy weight in her eyes that Daenerys refused to think of. Finally, she spoke again. “A visitor arrived at the castle not long ago, your Grace.”

“A visitor?” It was strange wording, yes, but it wasn’t even the strangest thing. “Who would possibly make the journey in this storm?” And who is important enough that she must be informed of in the middle of the night?

“Yes, I thought it odd. This woman arrived at the castle gates and said she must be brought to the Queen at once. She says she has a message of grave importance for you.” Missandei paused, “The guards did not think much of her, your Grace. They had every intention to send her away, but…”

“But?” Daenerys asked.

“The Lady Kinvara appeared and welcomed the woman. She sent the guards for Lord Tyrion and I, and bade us to ask you for an audience.”

“A random woman appears at our gates and demands to speak with me, and Lady Kinvara supports her.” 

“Lady Kinvara was adamant that you speak with her.”

“Did you see this woman? Do we have any idea who she is?”

“No, your Grace. She stood in the shadows when I arrived.” Missandei said, “The Lady Kinvara said nothing but that this woman bears an important message.”

Daenerys sighed. The Red Priestess had been speaking of some grand messenger for nearly a full moon’s turn. There had been many a time that Daenerys had been sorely tempted to snap at the woman for her strange ways and cryptic words, but Kinvara was a prominent figure in the faith of R'hllor and she knew better than to alienate her. 

“There is no hope of dissuading her to wait till dawn?” Daenerys said, irritated. 

“I do not think so. Lord Tyrion waits in the throne room.”

She suppressed the urge to groan and stood. “If we must, then.”

*

Entering the throne room, Daenerys immediately saw Tyrion standing at the base of the throne’s platform, an impatient expression on his face. 

“Your grace,” He looked as frustrated as she felt. “Our resident pyromaniac has brought in another pet pyromaniac and is being rather annoying about it.”

Daenerys furrowed her brow. “This woman is a red priestess? Do you know her?”

He nodded, “I know of her. A woman by the name of Melisandre. She was an advisor to Lord Stannis Baratheon last I heard, and was rumoured to be the one responsible for his sudden change in faith. The favorite rumour was that she seduced him.”

“If she was close to Stannis, there is a good possibility she knows her way around this castle. Do we have reason to be concerned of her as a threat?” Daenerys noticed her Lord Hand’s uncomfortable pause. “What is it?”

“There have been tales of this woman for years, your Grace, and they range from slightly strange to ridiculous. I don’t know enough of the truth to tell if she’s a threat or not.”

“Tales such as?”

“That she was a savage fanatic, although that is the typical attitude of many Westerosi to the followers of R’hllor. The woman who was suspected to have killed Renly Baratheon swore up and down that his true killer was a shadow which bore his brother’s face. Many said that this red woman was a shadowbinder, and made their own connections.”

A shadowbinder? That was far fetched, Daenerys thought, but could definitely be a problem if true. 

“The people of Dragonstone have said she would have ceremonies celebrating the Lord of Light on the beaches, and that she burned the old statues of the Seven. A few of them have insinuated that she murdered the former Maester, though none of them had proof. Some time ago, she and the rest of Stannis Baratheon’s host left the island and journeyed North. And at some point, Stannis was killed in battle, but I am not aware of how she found her way here after that.” Tyrion finished. 

“Should we summon Lord Varys? Would he perhaps know more?” she asked.

“I doubt it, your Grace. Most of the information I know about her comes from him. Besides, Varys has a negative opinion of all followers of R’hllor, and I imagine he would like her anymore than the others.”

They were interrupted by the entrance of Grey Worm through the great doors at the end of the room. He strode toward them quickly. “The red women wait outside.” He spoke quietly. “Do I let them enter for my queen?”

Daenerys turned to him. “What do you think of this Melisandre, Torgo Nudho? Do you think her intentions are true?” Grey Worm was the commander of her forces for a reason. He was a shrewd man with keen instincts and a good eye. If something felt wrong to him, she would trust his word.

He tilted his head, thinking, then shook it. “These red women are strange. They talk of strange things in strange ways, but I am not thinking that these women are dangerous. I do not think my Queen has anything to fear.”

She nodded. “Alright. Well, let us get this over with as quickly as possible. I’m sure we are all tired and would much rather be asleep in our beds.”

Daenerys turned again to ascend the stairs, hearing Grey Worm’s footsteps echo as he returned to the door. She settled herself into the throne, sitting all the way with her back pin straight and palms folded in her lap. Missandei and Tyrion stood next to her on either side, one patiently waiting with a serene expression and the other with visible frustration.

Grey Worm pushed open one side of the large doors, allowing the tall, slim figures of two women to slip through. He guided them forward down the long expanse of the hall.

Daenerys took the time to observe the two women. Kinvara appeared as she always did, gliding across the floor in floor length red fabric and gleaming dark hair, smiling with sharp eyes like she knew something you didn’t. The other woman, who Daenerys assumed was the mysterious Melisandre, had her head tilted down and shoulders hunched forward. She was clearly a tall woman, taller even than Kinvara and Grey Worm, and looked like she might have a svelte, sensual shape under the heaviness of damp clothes, but it was hard to tell. She seemed weighed down by more than just the weight of her dress and cloak, curled over herself like she was carrying something unbearable. From what little she could see of her skin, the woman looked frail and almost sickly. It was not the appearance or bearing Daenerys had expected of a woman who seduced as stern of a man as Stannis Baratheon to a different faith.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, and the women stilled as Grey Worm continued until he stood just behind her throne. Lady Kinvara, with the same tranquil smile, spoke first. “My Queen,” she breathed, “At last, our Lord has sent to you his message, an answer to that which troubles you the most.” 

She gestured towards Melisandre, who stood further back, face turned away to look at one of the giant iron braziers lining the hall. Shadows danced across the high planes of her face, and for a moment, Daenerys felt her eyes unfocus, and it appeared as if the other woman’s face sagged into that of a much older age. She blinked hard, and Melisandre’s face smoothed into unblemished skin once more. 

“I have prayed to Him, begging him to tell me how we might best serve His champion. He gave to me visions of your plight, illuminated upon me of your loss, my Queen.” Kinvara spread her hands like she was giving a sermon.

“My plight? And what did the Lord of Light tell you my plight is?” Daenerys did not have the patience to play at riddles these red priestesses so loved. It was far too late on a day that had gone on far too long.

“Your lack of child, my Queen. That you cannot carry life in your womb any longer.”

Her heart stuttered, churning and turning in on itself until it was a tight, hard stone in her sternum, impossible to breathe around. She faintly caught the shocked gasp of Missandei at her side, and the hiss of quickly exhaled air from Tyrion, but mostly she just felt as if she had been struck, completely knocked down. 

How dare she. How  _ dare  _ she! To bring such a thing up so brazenly, to throw it at her queen’s feet like a challenge! Kinvara may be a high priestess of R’hllor, but that gave her absolutely no right to speak of things that did not concern her! Daenerys felt her jaw tightening, and reflexively clasped her fingers together as tight as she could. All in one night, her own failing kept being dumped repeatedly into her lap as if she didn’t  _ know,  _ didn’t feel that acute pain every single day. 

She rose to her feet with almost unnatural stillness, hand falling apart to her sides. Kinvara was  _ still talking. _

“-you are the Mother of Dragons, yet you are a mother with no child. You have no heir to carry on your great reign. I asked the Lord of Light to show what I might do to change this, and I was shown. I looked into the flames and saw his chosen messenger, my fellow priestess Melisandre. I saw that she would be the one to give you his answer, and so I sent for her to come here and deliver it to you.”

“ _ Stop.”  _ Daenerys commanded. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but the single syllable rang with unbridled fury. “You speak of something that has no bearing on you. That is not, and should never be, something for you to concern yourself with. You have overstepped. You have crossed so far over the line, and yet you speak as if I should  _ thank  _ you? You will tell me who knows of my barrenness, and who has told you.”

Kinvara was shaking her head lightly, brow furrowed. “The Lord of Light sent to me a vision…”

“Do  _ not  _ lie to me Lady Kinvara, or not even R’hllor himself will help you!”

Kinvara gasped in dismay. She rushed forward suddenly, up the steps until she was right in front of Daenerys, where she reached forward to grasp her hands in a desperate clutch. Grey Worm shot forward with a growl, grasping the priestess’s elbow to wrench her away, but she would not let go.

“You misunderstand me. I swear to you, I do not lie!” There was a beseeching light in her eyes. “I tell you this, not as a threat or a way to shame you, my Queen. I tell you this so that you may change it! The Lord of Light has seen fit to show you how you will be blessed with your child!”

The compacted stone in her chest cracked and beat one solitary throb. “He-what?” She gasped.

Tears shown in the corners of Kinvara’s eyes like the flicker of a candle, and her lips split in a joyous grin. She pressed one palm to Daenerys’s flat stomach, leaning until their foreheads almost touched, like she was sharing a secret. “You will have a child, my Queen. Your son shall have a little sibling. I swear this to you” She whispered.

Daenerys could feel another crack in that stone, the tiniest sliver of hope, smaller and stronger than the greatest pickaxe, carving its way into the core of her. She wouldn’t dare hope. She could not bear such a thing. The hope was more terrible than any grief would dare to be. 

“This is cruel,” she whispered. “What a terrible, cruel thing to say.”

“Only if it’s untrue,” Kinvara replied, “and I am not lying. Melisandre has been sent to show you, my Queen. You will have your babe. She can tell you.”

Daenerys pulled away, forcibly adopting the somber expression she’d taught herself in Meereen.  _ I am a Queen,  _ she reminded herself,  _ I need to act like a Queen. Not some silly girl lost in the hopes and dreams of a past.  _

“You expect me to believe you, Lady Kinvara, but the woman that you say will bring this miraculous news to me is someone I have no reason to trust or believe. You have said you believe me to be the Lord of Light’s chosen, the one of your prophecy. And yet, this woman is known for having proclaimed Stannis Baratheon as the Prince who was Promised, a man who would have happily seen me dead, and who is now quite dead himself. Why would I believe the word of someone who has been so wrong before?” Daenerys looked at the woman in question, who was still staring into the brazier as if she hadn’t noticed the drama of the past few minutes. “She has not even looked at me.”

“People make mistakes, Your Grace. Even priestesses of the one true God. I simply had the misfortune of making mine loudly.” Melisandre finally spoke, and Daenerys found herself unnerved by the husky tone of her voice. There was something off about this woman, something that set Daenerys on edge. “I saw Stannis in the flames, but I failed to understand the truth of my sight.”

Daenerys stepped around Kinvara, eyes focused on Melisandre. Grey Worm took it as an opportunity to pull the other woman farther away from her before returning to his Queen’s side. 

“You seem quite uncertain of yourself. From the moment you entered this room, you have walked as if the floor might give out from under you. Should I take this to mean that you do not have confidence in your own sight?” Daenerys asked, frustrated.

“I have my concerns, yes. I do not understand why He would choose one who failed as I did to do this. I got so much wrong…” Melisandre’s brows drew together.

The sliver of hope was waning fast. Daenerys huffed through her nose. She turned to Kinvara once again. “You have promised me the impossible, but the woman who is meant to deliver this great miracle does not even trust in herself or your Lord. This is a waste of time!”

Melisandre’s gaze snapped to the Queen for the first time, and there was a horrid, fanatic brightness in her eyes. “I trust in the Lord of Light’s power. I have seen what His power can do. It is not Him I doubt, your Grace, but myself.” 

Again, Daenerys found herself unnerved by the woman in front of her. There was something almost unhinged in her face, or like there was just something about her features that wasn’t quite true. Like a mask that had been painted too realistically.

Kinvara moved closer to her fellow priestess, but spoke to both of them. “It is natural to have doubts, as I have said to Melisandre, but if we trust in the Lord of Light’s power, then we must trust in his will. It is Him who has chosen Melisandre to see his plan, and so it must be her.”

Kinvara grasped the other woman by her elbow and turned her back to the brazier. They both looked deep into the flames as they shuffled even closer. “Look, girl. What do you see? What does our Lord say to you?”

Daenerys spared a wary glance to the others. Grey Worm stood directly behind her right shoulder, tense and glaring mistrustfully at the women by the fire. Missandei still waited by the throne, but her usual serene expression was marred by a line between her drawn brows and pinch to her mouth. Tyrion, however, had moved from his original position as if he had initially followed Daenerys but stopped halfway, looking for all the world like a man who suspected someone to be playing a wild trick on him.

Daenerys was ready to dismiss the entire night as nonsense and order everyone to bed, and, specifically, to have this strange, creepy red priestess thrown off the island, when the woman spoke.

“I see...trees. A thick forest, but it is dead and bare. Everything is covered in snow and hard ice.” Melisandre took a deep breath, and stepped all the way up to the edge of the brazier. Daenerys worried for a moment that the woman’s hair would catch fire. “Something is running through the trees, I can’t...I can’t quite tell what it is. It is large, and white. It is very fast.”

Melisandre fell silent once again, squinting like she couldn’t see, and Kinvara pursed her lips. “What else? What else do you see?”

That was it. Daenerys had had enough of visions in flames, of strange priestesses in the middle of the night, and most especially of false hope and heartache. She wet her lips and was about to speak when Melisandre hissed in a shocked breath.

“It’s the Wall! I can see the Wall, I can recognize it, but it is not somewhere I saw. It’s odd, though…” she trailed off.

“Odd? How so?” Kinvara urged. Daenerys spun around, walking back to the throne. If she had to listen to this, she might as well be sitting down. She waved away Tyrion’s bewildered look.

“There’s a crack in the Wall.” Melisandre said. “There is a single flower growing there. A blue rose, like I’ve never seen before.”

Daenerys froze, her muscles locked in shock. She could see that rose before her as clear as day, but she needed no vision in the flames to picture it. The cut of icy wind stung her skin as if she was there again, and the phantom slice of a thorn in her finger ached.

For a moment, it was like she was in the House of the Undying once again, like she’d never escaped in the first place, but then the moment faded and she was blinking snow out her lashes as the shadow of a winter rose wisped away like smoke. 

Melisandre was describing something else when Daenerys swung around to stare at her with a clear intensity etched across her face. She may not have believed the priestesses only moments ago, but something in the deepest part of her was screaming that they spoke the truth. She’d always known she’d seen those visions in Qarth for a reason, and perhaps now she was discovering why.

“I see the forest again. It’s moving, so fast, but I think...yes, it’s slowing down. The thing, it’s some form of beast or dog. A wolf, perhaps, but very large. It is running towards someone in the distance” Melisandre leaned in closer, then closer still, the ends of her nearly touching the flames. She gasped suddenly, wrenching back. They all stared at her.

“I know that man,” she breathed.

Kinvara looked half crazed, and Daenerys felt it. “Who is it?” 

Melisandre turned to face them. “His name is Jon Snow.”

Silence echoed her words, until suddenly the room erupted with the sound of Tyrion’s delirious laugh. “Jon Snow?  _ Jon Snow!  _ Oh, fuck me.” He was doubled over, laughing so hard. Daenerys stared at him, aghast.

Finally, he sighed and stood up again. “Seven hells. Well, alright. That’s what you can expect when you let a crazy woman into the castle, I suppose.”

“I am not crazy, half man. The Lord of Light is clear. The Queen will have her babe, and the father can only be Jon Snow.” Melisandre sneered at him. She stood taller than she had the entire night, and her change in posture gave her an aura of power.

Tyrion snorted. “‘The Lord of Light is clear’? Fine, let us assume for a moment that you really did see something in the fire. You saw trees, a flower, what you think is the wall, and then perhaps you saw Jon Snow, a man who has very little-if anything-connecting him to her Grace. Nevertheless, you say that these random things mean that the Queen can, in fact, conceive a child, but only if she conceives the child with a random Northern bastard?” 

“I do not need to explain my vision to nonbelievers like you!”

“Oh I think you do!”

Daenerys ignored them, locking eyes with Missandei. The other woman stared back at her, then the corners of her mouth ticked up. 

“Lady Melisandre,” Daenerys cleared her throat. “You must have had quite a journey. Lady Kinvara, if you could show her somewhere to sleep? I suspect you two have much to talk about.”

Lady Kinvara hadn’t moved while Melisandre and Tyrion had bickered, but curtseyed without a word and pulled Melisandre with her. The latter priestess lifted her chin and did not bother to thank the Queen.

Without waiting for anyone to speak, Daenerys strode back towards the Chamber of the Painted Table. There were only the dying embers in the hearth from their earlier meeting, and all the food and drink had been cleared away in the time they were gone. She walked the length of the table until she stood next to the segment depicting the North.

“You know this Jon Snow?” she asked over her shoulder.

Tyrion stopped, barely in the room. “What?”

“You recognized his name, Lord Hand. I even believe you said he is of the North?”

His jaw dropped. “You cannot be serious.”

She looked up at him, unphased. “Do you know him?”

Tyrion stared at her for one moment one, and then she could physically see his attempt to swallow his tongue. He finally walked fully into the room, joining her at the table.

“Not really? I have met him once, some years ago when he was still a boy. He’s Ned Stark’s bastard, so most people know of him.” At her inquisitive look, he clarified. “Eddard Stark was an honourable man. Rather obnoxiously so, and every nobleman knew him by that trait. When he returned to his wife after the war with another woman’s babe, it was a scandal. Honourable Ned Stark broke his wedding vows, and what’s worse is he refused to tell anyone who the mother was-not even King Robert knew.”

Daenerys nodded. “But you have met him? This Jon Snow.”

“Yes. When Ned left Winterfell to become Robert’s hand, his bastard had decided to join up with the Night’s Watch. Most of the Seven Kingdoms see the Watch as a life-long prison sentence or a joke, but many in the North still think of it as a noble calling. He was one of them. I made the journey from Winterfell to the Wall with him and a few others.”

“And what was your impression of him?”

Tyrion sighed. “He was still a boy, though he certainly thought himself grown. However...Jon struck me as honourable. Like his father. His belief in honor and vows and nobility bordered on naivety, but I quite liked him at the time. He was far more broody than anyone who had lived in a castle his entire life had any right to be. And he’s very sharp. He could be a bit a petulant and sullen like any child, but he had a mind like a steel trap.”

He searched her face, but could not tell what she was thinking. After a few beats of silence, he cleared his throat. “This was all a long time ago, your Grace. King’s Landing received the news of your wedding to the Dothraki Khal around the same time. I know very little of the man he is now.”

“What do we know of him now?” Daenerys asked.

“He was made Lord Commander of the Wall after Jeor Mormont died, but he has left the Night’s Watch.”

“I was under the impression that the Watch takes a life oath.”

“They do.”

“But he left?”

“So they say.”

“Where is he now?”

“Apparently he and his trueborn sister Sansa Stark took Winterfell back from the Boltons.”

That made her pause. “Your wife, Sansa Stark?”

“Unconsummated, as I’ve told you, your Grace.” He frowned, “Besides, I think our marriage was nullified when she disappeared and I was put on trial for regicide.”

Something made her go still, and Tyrion looked back up to see her frown.

“This Jon Snow,” she said, “this is the same Jon Snow who has been declared King in the North?”

“Yes?” He stared at her, confused, then chuckled. “Were you under the impression there was a different Jon Snow?”

She shot him a disdainful look. “Jon is quite a common name.” He only laughed at her, and Daenerys’s scowl deepened. “I wasn’t taught by a Citadel tutor, Tyrion. How was I supposed to know?”

“You’re right, your Grace,” he said, still chuckling. “My apologies.”

They lapsed back into silence, and Tyrion found himself wishing more and more for a bed or some wine. Or a bed and wine.For a while, they both simply stared at the table. Tyrion couldn’t begin to guess at what she was thinking of, and had long since stopped trying to understand anything that had happened that night. 

Daenerys leaned her weight against the Eastern edge of the continent, walking her fingers along the path of the Kingsroad to Winterfell. Finally, she pulled her hand away.

“Send someone to wake the Maester,” she said.

“The Maester, your Grace? What for?”

Daenerys turned and raised a single eyebrow, fixing him with a placid look, “We have a letter to send to Winterfell.”

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so first off: to anyone who was waiting for this, I am so sorry it took like forever and a day! Dick move on my part, my bad.  
> The last like two months of my life have been super hectic. Word of advice to whoever needs it-do not take a 16 week calc class in 4 weeks over winter break just because your school drops it to half price. Your brain will shrivel up and die and you will not be able to function. Learn from my mistakes.  
> So!!! I want to reiterate that I will not tolerate any bashing of any characters because I love them all and they are my babies! This is just a blanket warning because people really seem to love finding someone to hate in the GOT/ASOIAF fandom and I'm just really not here for that.  
> I did not realize how hard it is to write Jon. Like...uhhhh. I cannot seem to find his voice, and it has been a frustrating journey, so if he seems OOC, it's just cause I don't connect to noble, broody male angst well. Love him, but can't relate.  
> Also, this chapter fought me every step of the way. It was not an easy time. Like I literally kept switching from past to present tense and I still have no idea why??? So if you see something funky grammar wise that doesn't seem stylistic, lmk.  
> It is once again 3 am and god I am hoping this doesn't become a habit  
> Ok I will stop talking now lol. Enjoy!  
> \---Rae

A chill wafted in from below the heavy wooden door, and Sansa shivered. She had a fire burning in the hearth, but it did little in the lofty study. It was one of the highest rooms in Winterfell, sequestered near the top of the library’s tower, and though she enjoyed the distance from the noisy yard and the fact that she had no memories in this room, the heat that kept most of the castle warm did not reach this far.

Staring out of the single, thin window, Sansa could watch the bustling movement in the courtyard below her. Carts of wheat and grain, only half full, were being tugged past the stables and wheeled to the kitchens. Near the southern gate, the open doors of the forge glowed and let smoke and steam drift out. The morning snowfall had since settled and been trod over, leaving muddy paths of footprints and wheel ruts stretching across the yard like a dirty grey web.

Sansa focused her attention on the northern section of the courtyard, where a group of perhaps 3 dozen men drilled. Typically, training was done in the smaller courtyard off the guard’s hall, but in interest of training as more people at once, a larger enclosure had been crafted in the main yard. At this distance, the people there seemed no larger than ants, scurrying and clashing back and forth.

Jon was somewhere down there, she assumed. He often was. He liked training-he’d told her once that it helped to clear his head, center him. She didn’t understand how swinging a sword around could bring someone peace, but then, she’d never had-and even moreso, he enjoyed helping the others train. Sansa suspected he liked seeing their progress, and being able to physically see how his hard work was paying off. She could understand that part, she supposed. She’d always liked seeing the shapes take form when she embroidered as a child. Perhaps it was a similar satisfaction.

Down in the courtyard, Sansa saw a figure hastily make their way into the thickest group of people. She’d lost them in the crowd for a minute or two, when they reappeared at the edge, followed by another, larger and darker than the first. The larger person seemed to pause, as if to listen, then begin to walk swiftly towards the library’s base.

She turned away from the window then, satisfied that Jon was on his way. Sansa rubbed her fingers against her palms futilely and grabbed the small scroll of parchment off her desk. She settled into a chair next to the fire to wait.

It did not take long, despite the amount of stairs there were to climb. Sansa called his welcome as soon as she heard his feet outside the door.

Jon stepped in, closing the door and gratefully sinking into the chair next to her. The same, permanent frown he’d always worn was etched into his brow, and Sansa had a strange urge to tease him for it. She would have, if he were Robb or Bran or Rickon, maybe even if he were Arya, too. But she never had before, when she’d been more concerned of his bastardry than of their shared blood, and had no idea if he would accept her acting so casually.  
He was her brother, the last family she had left, and she loved him dearly just as she knew he loved her. She knew he would die to keep her safe, and felt as if she would do the same. Sansa just didn’t know if they were friends.

“I was told you needed me, Sansa. Something about a letter?” Jon asked.

Sansa said nothing, choosing instead to hold the scroll out to him. She watched the frown deepen as he read it, and could understand the expression. She’d read it maybe a half dozen times now, and had very little idea of what to do with it.

_By the order of her Grace, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name, the King in the North, Jon Snow, is hereby invited to Dragonstone with the intent of discussing a possible alliance against the false queen, Cersei Lannister._   
_Hand of the Queen, Lord Tyrion Lannister_

Jon looked up at her, then back down once again, a hand coming up to rub at his beard. His brow had become so heavily furrowed at that point that the bridge of his nose had completely scrunched up. Sansa really, really wanted to tease him.

When he looked back up at her, she took it as her cue to speak. “He managed to be both succinct and loquacious all at once. I do remember that being a gift of his.”

“Of who?”

Sansa pointed at the paper. “My lord husband,” she joked. The look of sudden unease on Jon’s face made her laugh softly. “Oh, don’t be like that. It was a sham marriage, nothing ever happened. Neither of us had any desire for the other.”

“I didn’t ask,” Jon grumbled. He settled forward in his chair, holding the letter next to his knees. “What do you make of this?”

“It’s addressed directly to you,” Sansa hummed. “Not an envoy, not a representative. Just you.”

“You say that as if it means something.” Jon said.

“Of course it does.”

He studied her carefully, straightening up in his chair. “You think it’s a trap.”

“I do, yes.” Sansa nodded.

She waited for his reply, but Jon only turned to look at the fire, chin in hand. She sighed.

“We have no reason to trust Daenerys Targaryen, and she has no reason to trust the North. There has never been any attempt at communication with the North, no attempt to start a conversation about what our forces could offer each other. Except now, and suddenly this Dragon Queen is inviting the King in the North to her stronghold? Alliances don’t start by one ruler summoning the other to their camp.” Sansa said, “This is suspicious at best.”

“If the Targaryen force wants me dead, why go through all this trouble? If she has the army people say she does, if she has the dragons, then the North wouldn’t even be a threat. She could ride up the Kingsroad, wipe us out, and be done with it in a fortnight, maybe two. It wouldn’t even take any effort.” Jon tapped the scroll. “Besides, it is addressed to me, like you said. Specifically to me, as the King. Why would they acknowledge Northern sovereignty if they didn’t want us to take this as a serious offer?”

She frowned, frustrated. “Perhaps they did so for exactly that reason. You’d be more likely to travel to Dragonstone if you took it seriously, and wouldn’t expect for them to do you harm.”

“Sansa,” his voice took on that gruff, earnest sound she was becoming too familiar with, and she repressed the urge to roll her eyes. She knew what was coming next.

“Sansa,” Jon repeated. “This might be our chance-the only one we get. We need more fighters. We have no chance surviving the Others without a larger force. And if what they say is true, and she really has dragons, then we might even live through the winter. This could be the only way.”

Gods be good, but sometimes she wanted to throttle him. Every conversation they’d had since taking Winterfell ended the same way: with Jon, full of determination and yet as grim as absolutely possible, talking endlessly of the ‘threat beyond the Wall’. Sansa never argued with him about it-though the Gods knew she really wanted to. He was so convinced of this evil Night King marching his way south with every passing hour, followed by an endless horde of frozen skeletons. It wasn’t that she thought he was making it up. Sansa truly thought Jon believed his own stories to be true.

But they were stories! Tall tales like the ones Bran would beg Old Nan to tell. And even it was true-how much damage could a rotten corpse do? If the person has been dead for so long, they can’t be all that strong, can they? Wouldn’t the giant Wall make it a bit difficult for them to come south?

Besides, there were more pressing things to worry about. Jon was concerned they wouldn’t survive the winter, and so was Sansa, but for a very different reason: starvation. There was not enough food. When Robb was alive, it was still summer, and most of the Lords had turned their attention to war, not farming. They had been lucky that the battles had never fully reached Northern lands, and so no farming ground had been destroyed or injured. But when Theon had attacked Winterfell with an Ironborn force, they’d destroyed some food storage and farmland, and the Boltons had done little to repair or replenish when they had taken the North for themselves. Many of the families by the Wall had increased issues with Wildings stealing from their stores and destroying their land, so their food supply had not been steady before the autumn snows began in earnest. Most of the rest of the Northern Lords had become increasingly more isolated under Bolton rule, just trying to survive rather than preparing for the future.

As a result, there was very little food to be found in the North. Even wild meat was beginning to become scarce. They had few options on what to do, although Sansa had been scouring the tomes of Northern Maesters and accounts of her what her own ancestors had done in winters gone past. All the possible answers she found in writing were ideas she or Jon had already thought of. Their situation was growing more dire by the day, and yet all Jon would talk about was those who were already dead.

Sansa suppressed a sigh. “It would be a great opportunity,” she said cooly, “if they honestly want an alliance. However, perhaps there are other things that require more...immediate attention.”

This time, it was Jon’s turn to stifle his frustration. Sansa rose fluidly, walking to the desk to smooth open a rolled scroll across its surface. She was already pointing at a few thinly written lines in the middle by the time Jon was standing beside her.

“As you can see here, in every recorded winter the people of the North have all come to Winterfell for safety. It’s why Wintertown exists, Jon. We need-”

“We’ve already had this discussion, Sansa. I don’t think it’s safe to house everyone in one location-the Others will come and destroy us all at once. Besides, we need to stop them as close to the Wall as possible, and we can’t do that if everyone is as far south as Winterfell.” He said.

Sansa scowled at him. “We need to find a way to feed our people! We can’t do that unless we have them and the food here!”

“The food won’t matter if they can’t survive the Others!”

“They can’t survive the ‘Others’ if they’re already starving!”

They stood at opposite ends of the desk, glaring each other down.

“I know we’re in need of food, Sansa. I am thinking of that just as much as you, it’s just that there is one option left and you won’t even acknowledge it!” Jon said, frustrated.

“If we just pooled all the resources in Winterfell, we could solve this.” She insisted.

Jon grimaced. “There isn’t enough food in all of the North to feed everyone Sansa, and you know it. We need to ally with the other kingdoms, it’s our last option. And they are all allied with either Cersei or the Dragon Queen!”

“The Eyrie is allied with us. They have already offered help.”

Jon’s expression shuttered. “ _The Eyrie_ has offered the North nothing. _Petyr Baelish_ will give you anything.”

Sansa repressed a wince. She wanted badly to refute his words, but she couldn’t. He was right. The North’s relationship with the Eyrie wasn’t truly an alliance, it was mainly just Littlefinger dangling help in front of them while weaseling his way into everything he could. He was more than willing to give her near anything she asked for, as long as it was her asking for it. He paid very little heed to Jon, who was, in fact, the actual reigning King. Sansa worried that the longer they relied on Littlefinger, the higher the odds were for him trying to find a way into her bed.

“I know you don’t like him,” Sansa raised her hands in a placating manner. Jon was a reasonable man, and there were very few things that could make him lose his temper. However, even the mention of Petyr Baelish would get under his skin and infuriate him. “But we have to tolerate him for the good of the people.”

“It’s not just that I don’t like him,” Jon hissed.

“I know, Jon.”

He was glowering at the surface of the desk, as if he could see the object of his ire there. “I _hate_ him. He looks at you like you’re something to eat.”

“Yes, I know, Jon.” She drolled. “But the Eyrie is currently the only thing standing between the North and Cersei’s forces, so please do try not to stab him the next time he looks at me.”

He shot her a dirty look in return. “I never said I was going to kill him.”

“And I’m sure you have learned ways to stab a man without killing him.” Sansa said. Jon snorted out a disbelieving laugh at her words, sounding so similar to the way Rickon laughed when they were children. It made her heart hurt.

Such reminders were happening more and more often as the days grew colder. Sansa found herself lost in her own memories of their siblings almost every time she and Jon spoke. When he smiled, she thought of Arya when she’d run around, covered in dirt from head to toe. Sansa used to get so angry with her, used to scold her right along with the Septa! She’d give nearly anything to be able go back in time, and just be kinder to her sister.

And then there were times, especially when Jon was tired, that Sansa would look at him and would almost swear she could see their father’s face, like a shadow over his own. It made her want to smile and sob all at once, and she would have told him if she’d thought he would like it.

The fire had begun to weaken, and Jon moved to grab a log of the pile. “I can call a servant,” Sansa said.

“It’s fine. I’m already here.” Having thrown new wood on the fire, Jon turned back to face her. “So what do we do?”

“About the Dragon Queen?” She asked.

“Her invitation.”

Sansa studied him for a moment, then looked away. “It is your choice, Jon. You are our King.”

“Don’t do that,” he huffed, “I asked you because I want to know what you think. You don’t need to placate me.”

“But you are the King. You make the decisions.”

“And I don’t know how to bloody well be a king, Sansa! It’s not as if I was trained for this.” Jon threw up his hands, then sighed. “I don’t know how to be King,” he repeated, “but I do know I don’t want to be the type of king that ignores the advice of the most clever person he knows.”

Sansa smiled lightly. “Thank you, Jon.”

He looked at her, confused. “For what?”

“Do you really think I’m the most clever person you know?”

“Yes,” Jon said, like it was obvious.

She smiled again. He really could be quite sweet sometimes, even when he wasn’t meaning to be. Sansa returned to her chair, facing him.

“It would be difficult.” She started, “But if they truly are offering an alliance, this could mean the difference between life and death for the North. Daenerys Targaryen has the Reach and it’s farmlands, and I have no doubt that she could still call for more resources from Essos. Our people would not want for food.”

“However,” Sansa deliberately leaned forward to catch his attention, “there are rumours about this woman that worry me. People say that she is touched by the same madness that held her father and brother. When I was in King’s Landing, word reached Westeros of her brother’s death. Nobody could agree on the same story, but everyone was sure she had something to do with it. And then there were more tales, even in the Eyrie of things she’d done. Sacking cities, crucifying those who stood against her, overseeing fighting pits. I understand that people can make things up and that stories can be warped, but when there are so many, you cannot help but wonder.”

Jon said nothing, crossing his arms and staring ahead with a studious, if frustrated, expression.

Sansa cleared her throat. “Even if we assume that all those stories are baseless or that they are lies, and that the Dragon Queen is the kindest, fairest ruler to ever live, it will still be difficult. Even if she removes Cersei and her sycophants from power, supplies the North will all the food we could ever need-”

“And bolster our forces against the Night King.” Jon interjected.

Sansa resisted the urge to huff. “And yes, that too. If everything went the best that it possibly could, the Northern Lords would still not accept it.”

Jon growled. “The Northern Lords don’t accept anything.”

“And they especially will not accept this.”

“We will make them see reason.”

“Ha!” She laughed outright, “Gods, Jon! When have they ever?”

“They will if they realize how dire it truly is.” He said stubbornly.

“No, they won’t.” She sighed. “They’ve got long memories, and most of them were alive for the rebellion. Most of them would rather slit their own throats than to kneel for anyone named Targaryen.”

Jon rubbed at his temples, scowling. “For a people who hate politics so much, we Northerners do seem to care an awful lot over a person’s name.”

“Northerners don’t hate politics, they just hate the south. We’ve our own courts and games here.” Sansa, truthfully, had hoped that in returning north, she would never have to play at noble politics again, longing for her intrigue-free memories of home. She had discovered the opposite; the North may not run on a steady cycle of schemes and conspiracies like King’s Landing did, but it was just as precarious a board to play on.

For one thing, women in the North were not acknowledged as any form of threat unless they were a proven warrior. That wasn’t to say that Northern women were treated any better or worse than their Southern counterparts-women were forever the pawns of their fathers and brothers and husbands, it seemed, fit only to serve the whims of the nearest man. But a woman could gain power in the South, even if only in whispers and the force of their influence. A woman in the South could shape the world around her, bit by bit, until it suited her purpose. It was infinitely harder than if a man tried the same, but it could be done. One had only to look at the likes of Cersei Lannister or Margaery Tyrell.

It could not be done in the North, of that, Sansa was nearly certain. She knew Jon had his concerns that she might have been hurt when he, a bastard, was chosen to rule over her, the last trueborn Stark, but she had not been expecting any other outcome. In fact, she was rather proud of him. He was well suited for ruling, she thought, and after her experience around all sorts of people who were decidedly not, Sansa thought she could perhaps consider herself a bit of an expert.

There were women in their land that were regarded in the same esteem as men-but Sansa couldn’t think of a single one that hadn’t been some sort of warrior. Many women in the Mormont family, including the little Lady Lyanna, were treated as near equals to the other lords, but the ladies of Bear Island were well known for their ferocity and strength. Sansa knew that many of the noble lords thought highly of Lady Lyanna, in no small part due to the reputation of her mother, and her assertion that she would fight with the men when war would come.

For women like Sansa, such regard would never come. She was no fighter, and had no interest in being one. She was observant, she was clever, and she was charismatic. Her strength came in different ways that the Northern men held little value in.

Women in the North could still gain respect of course, but it was the gentle admiration of a beautiful lady. It was not the acknowledgement of equal stature, nor was it the acknowledgment of a woman’s power.

It was maddening and heartbreaking and baffling all at once to Sansa, who, in her captivity under the Lannister’s thumbs, had fashioned memories of home into a sort of paradise. She still loved Winterfell, still loved the North, but she’d spent too long immersed in Cersei’s cutthroat games to have not learned how to identify the politics at play around her.

“I can’t think of any other way, Sansa. This really could be our last chance.” Jon said, shaking her out of her thoughts.

She sighed. “Honestly, I can’t think of anything else either.”

“We’ll need their support for this. At the very least, we’ll need their acceptance, begrudging or not. What do we do?” Jon asked.

Sansa resisted the urge to sigh again. What do we do, indeed? They’d have to be careful in how they announced this-somehow, they’d have to make an alliance with a Targaryen seem like it was a good option to people who would most likely rather willingly die. They could not let on that they had very little idea what the Dragon Queen wanted, and frame it in a way to make them think that this was some honorable sacrifice Jon was making on behalf of the North.

“Alright,” Sansa cleared her throat, “You’ll have to give a speech.”

\--

Davos stood uncertainly at the edge of Winterfell’s Great Hall, watching more and more people stream in. Almost all of those coming were Lords of the North, or at least, Davos assumed. Some of the only people he could recognize were the young Lady Lyanna and Lord Yohn Royce. He had very little knowledge of who was who in the North. They were all dressed in Northern finery, with well cared for fur and leather, so he thought his assumption was most likely accurate.

It was odd just how hot Winterfell could get, he thought to himself. It was bitter cold outside, a cold like Davos had never known, but inside the castle walls always felt oddly warm. And with fires roaring in every brazier and the sheer amount of people in the Hall, the heat was becoming a bit stifling under his heavy winter clothes.

Davos had kept himself quietly busy since Jon had been named King. He still wasn’t entirely sure of his place here, not in the way he’d known what to do by Stannis’s side. He’d spent most of his time with Tormund’s wildlings, doing his best to help them and make himself as useful as he could. He found that being around Tormund could be rather amusing; the much larger man was loud and boisterous, and was earnestly trying to win the affections of the Lady Brienne, with very little success. As it turned out, courting rituals were quite different among the Free Folk and the Sapphire Isles, and Davos could only laugh as Tormund’s attempts to woo her got stranger and stranger.

Davos had spent very little time with the King and the Lady Sansa. Occasionally, he’d be called into some meeting with one or the other, but he often found himself surrounded by noblemen he did not recognize in those times. Not knowing how well the advice of a lowborn knight would be taken by them, he’d kept his mouth shut.

He knew they hadn’t forgotten him, and he knew they still valued his opinion and experience, but he also knew that they’d been astonishingly busy since retaking Winterfell. After failing to answer the call to fight the Boltons, the nobility of the North had come pouring into Winterfell, practically falling over themselves to declare their loyalty to their new King and pledge their houses to his cause. But while they’d all been quick to welcome the ‘rightful’ rulers of the North once again, they were all so brusque and sharp that it was hard for Davos to tell what was going on. He’d learn how to read a court while serving Stannis, but the politics on Dragonstone were completely different than those of Winterfell. Each Lord who’d come had clearly pledged their allegiance and done it with great haste, but where Southern lords would have been explaining their actions, or apologizing, or making excuses, these Northern men just...didn’t. Though Davos could tell there was some politicking going on, it was nothing he had managed to understand thus far.

There was a slight bustle at the other end of the room, and Davos craned his neck to see that at some point, both Jon and Sansa had arrived. Staying in his corner, he watched quietly as Jon made his way through the crowds, stopping here and there to exchange quick words with this Lord or that. The great fur cloak he often wore now made him seem quite large and imposing. He had a sternness now that suited his new station well, though not as harsh as Stannis had been and more poised as well. Yet despite the formidable impression he gave, he still managed to seem like he did not think himself superior to those around him. Jon was, all at once, above them all and yet one of them. Davos would almost say he looked quite regal.

Jon had reached the throne at the end of the hall, but instead of sitting, he turned to face the crowd in front of him.

“I know many of you have heard me speak of the threat we face. And I know you think my words are little more than the fables and tall tales we tell to scare children. But know that I am my father’s son, and I would not dishonor his memory by lying to you.”

The room had fallen quiet at his words, but Davos could still hear as the Northerners whispered back and forth to each other. Among the crowd, they were few people listening intently, among them Lady Lyanna and a very, very large old man that Davos could not recognize.

“The Others are not just stories. The Night King leads an army of the dead, and every day that passes, that army gets closer and closer to us-to our homes, our families, and our lives. I’ve seen these monsters with my own eyes, I’ve fought them face to face. I have felt the cold of the Winter they bring. I have looked into the Night King’s eyes and seen death in them.

“This is not an enemy we can bargain with. They have no wants, no desires. There is nothing we can give them that would stop their march, no amount of pleading could make them turn back. They have no need for food, water, shelter, or warmth. There is nothing human left within them. They have no goal that we could ever understand-but I fear they will not ever stop until every last living being of this world is dead."

The weight of the silence was heavy, almost tangible. No one spoke now, every face turned to the King with solemn expressions and furrowed brows.

“I tell you this, not to frighten you, but so that you may understand. A war unlike any other waits upon our doorsteps, against a foe we never learned how to face. The North has forever been strong and steady, a people and land that has persevered through every challenge we have faced.

“My loyalty is to my land and my people. As it always has been, and always will be. The North is my home and there is nothing in this world that could ever change that. I would bleed for this land, give my last breath and lay down my life for my home! I was a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch, and I take an oath to be the shield that guards the realms of men and I will never break that solemn vow!”

The energy of the crowd had begun to revive; faces were upturned, chins lifted and shoulders squared as the Northerners listened to their King. Davos could see the pride take form in their eyes, the respect for the man who stood in front of them.

“But in this, I cannot protect you alone. The Night’s Watch, the Wall cannot protect you. We cannot stand to face this enemy alone and expect to survive. I cannot in good conscience ask you to take up arms against the Others, knowing that we do not have the numbers to win. Nor will I ever ask you to run. The North is our home, the land our families have always held. We have weathered many wars and winters before this one; we do not flee.

“You chose to name me your King, knowing I have always sworn to protect this land, knowing that I was raised by my father to be a true Northerner. I would never betray the trust you have bestowed upon me, nor the responsibility I hold for you all.

“It is because of this that I must do what is best for the North. We do not have the manpower to fight the Others. We do not even have the food to get through a normal winter. We have one option left, if we wish to survive. We need an alliance.”

The murmur of discontent was growing quickly. Expressions of pride shifted to scowls and grimaces in mere moments. Though he had admittedly spent little time with Northerners, even Davos knew that they were an insular bunch, and quite adverse to anyone they perceived as outsiders.

“Please, listen! This is not a decision that has been made lightly. If they were any other option, know that I would take it. But I know what we face, and I will not lead our people to slaughter like they are nothing more than sheep! If we fight alone, then we will only serve to hold the enemy off so that the South may survive that much longer. I will not have you lay down your lives for Southerners who would not deign to thank you.”

The noise quieted once again, with many of those in the room looking slightly chastised. The respect and admiration had returned to the gazes of most, and Davos noticed that Lady Sansa was shrewdly watching those who still grumbled. He had no doubt that she was taking note of anyone who would potentially try to rebuke Jon.

Looking back towards Jon himself, Davos noticed a slight hesitancy in the set of his shoulders. The King paused a moment too long, but raised his chin with his jaw tenser than before.

“But our luck has turned, and the Old Gods have answered my prayers! A raven arrived a week ago, offering us the chance that we need. The North has been offered an alliance...with Daenerys Targaryen.”

The room exploded before Jon had even closed his mouth. People who’d been sitting on benches along the side of the room shot to their feet, shouting furiously. Curses flew from bared teeth as people all across the hall cried out against his announcement. All around, the people were growling and spitting, enraged.

Davos was stunned. In part because he certainly had not expected Jon to announce an alliance with the Dragon Queen of all people, but also because of the vitriol in the men around him. If Stannis’s bannermen had ever reacted in such a way, it would not have been tolerated. Stannis would have been furious at the disrespect, but Jon merely stood before the throne, head held high with his shoulders back, taking all the abuse.

The men only began to settle when Lady Sansa stood and joined her brother. She raised her hand in a gesture of appeasement, her delicate features soft in comparison to the harsh tension in Jon’s.

“My Lords,” she called, her high voice carrying over the din like the call of a songbird. “Please, you must be calm. I understand your anger- the thought of allying with the daughter and sister of those who have so grievously harmed us is as abhorrent to me as it is to you. Do you think I forget it was her father who burned my grandfather alive? Her father who chained and butchered my father’s brother? I do not. I do not forget her eldest brother stole my aunt, our Lady Lyanna from her home. The North remembers, my lords, and so do I.”

She stepped forward lightly, clasping her hands in front of her. “But our King speaks the truth. The Long Night comes for us all, and the North must endure as it has always done. Our lands are harsh, our winters harsher, and we know the brutal truths of what we must do to survive. You must understand that our King knows of your ill content with his choice, but he has made this choice because it is the only way to save all of our lives. To deny the Dragon Queen’s offer is to condemn us all to death, and that is something my brother will never do. Winter demands sacrifices of us all, and this is one he has chosen to make for all of our sakes.”

The shouting and cursing had stopped, at least, but their displeasure sat like a fog around the hall. The lords still grumbled back and forth to each other, scowls plain to see. But it was no longer a rampant cacophony of rage.

Sansa returned to her seat. Jon’s gaze uneasily flicked over the crowd, but he cleared his throat and spoke quicker than before.

“This alliance could be the only thing standing between the North and death itself. In three days time, I plan to leave for Dragonstone with a small group of trusted advisors, to meet with the Targaryen Queen and discuss our terms. It is my hope that through this, the North will gain the resources and arms we need to survive the Long Night. I do this with the North’s best interests at heart; know that I would never agree to anything that would betray our land. In my absence, my sister, Lady Sansa, will rule in my stead. If the worst should occur, I ask you to look to her and trust her for the true daughter of the North she is.”

With that, Jon stepped back, turning towards Sansa and effectively dismissing them all.

While most of the lords took the dismissal as what it was and turned to file out, muttering all the while, a few held back. The overly large man Davos had noticed before was slowly ambling his way towards Jon, obviously looking to talk.

Out of the corner of his eye, Davos saw Littlefinger hover at the edge of a doorway. The man watched Jon and Sansa for several long moments, but suddenly swivelled to see Davos watching him. Littlefinger covered his initial grimace with a rather oily smile, then slid out of the room.

“He’s a slippery one, isn’t he? Rather always has been.” The voice came from behind Davos, making him turn to see a strange, small man standing just to the right of his shoulder.

The man was perhaps around Davos’s own age, though he couldn’t really be sure. He was rather short, with the pale skin all Northerners seemed to have, and quite thin, too. His hair was thinning, but there was still a scraggly mop of curls the color of muddy clay atop his head. Perhaps the most striking, however, was the deep, vibrant green of his eyes.

There was something peculiar about him. He looked at Davos like he knew him, but he was certainly not known to Davos.

“I’m sorry?” Davos replied.

The man pointed at the door. “Littlefinger. Or Petyr Baelish, if you’re unfamiliar with his moniker.”

“Ah...are you friends with him?”

“Oh, certainly not.” The man grinned at him, cheery as he rocked back on his heels.

Davos did his best not to gape at the man. He’d met all sorts of characters in his lifetime, but never anyone quite like this.

The man was staring at Jon. “He’s a strong leader, that boy. Charismatic.” With a wry sort of grin, he said, “Looks like his father, up there.”

“Did you know Lord Eddard well?” Davos felt like he was grasping at straws, trying to piece together whatever sort of conversation they were having.

A laughing sparkle grew in the man’s eyes, and his grin stretched into a mischievous smile. “No, no. His father and I weren’t close. Truthfully, I only met and talked to him the once.”

“But you said the King looks like his father?” Davos asked, faltering and confused.

“I wouldn’t say I knew him well, no.” The man mused.

“Well, that doesn’t answer my question-”

“Speaking of the King, it looks like he’s coming to speak with you. I’ll leave you to it.” The man patted Davos’s arm, winked, and strode away.

Mystified by the weird exchange, Davos was taken off guard by the arrival of Jon and Sansa by his side.

“What did Lord Howland want?” Sansa asked, startling him out of his stupor.

“I’m sorry, my Lady, you have me at a disadvantage. Who?” He stuttered.

“I saw Howland Reed speaking to you.” She said.

“Is that his name? He didn’t introduce himself. Just came right up to me and made some remark about not knowing the King’s father well.” Davos shrugged. Jon and Sansa wore twin looks of confusion.

“That is...odd.” Sansa said.

“I thought father and Lord Howland were friends?” Jon asked, “I remember they used to write to each other.”

“Yes, I do too. Mother didn’t like him. She thought he was a strange friend to keep.”

Davos shook his head. “He quite clearly said he only met Lord Eddard one time.”

The two looked only more perturbed, but Sansa eventually sighed and waved a dismissive hand. “I wouldn’t think much of it, Ser Davos. It’s best to ignore Lord Howland, honestly. He so rarely leaves the Neck, and most consider him to be a bit touched in the head. Besides, the crannogmen do love their riddles.”

“There are more important things, anyway,” Jon said, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “We’ve accepted the invitation to Dragonstone, but we are still wary of this being some sort of trap. I’d like for you to come with me and the others. If things go wrong, I’ll need someone at my side who can get us out of the castle and off the island as quickly and quietly as possible. Can you do that?”

Davos laughed. “Of course, your Grace. In fact, I’ve done it several times.”

“Good. That’s one less thing to worry for.”

“If I may ask,” Davos said, “who else will be going?”

“Not many,” said Sansa. “We want to keep a smaller party. It’ll be easier if you have less people to take care of there, and in all honesty we can’t spare many here. Actually, one of Lord Howland’s vassals, Ser Barron Blackmyre, will be going with you.”

“Crannogmen aren’t usually very large,” Jon informed him, “and so most people underestimate them. But they’re also good fighters. They’re taught to fight differently than the rest of the North, and they’re quick. He’ll be good to have by our side.”

“One of my servants from the Vale will be accompanying you as well. Her name is Alyssa, and she’s proven herself to be quite loyal to me.” At Davos’s puzzled look, Sansa explained. “Alyssa can identify nearly any poison. She caught an attempt in my drink in the Eyrie and has stayed by my side ever since. She’s also quite observant, more than most. She’ll be helpful to have around.”

“Lady Lyanna offered one of her men, Wors Mull. His father was a knight on Bear Island, and his mother from the mountain clans. He’s strong, and loyal to the North.” Jon said.

Sansa nodded. “He doesn’t speak all that much from what I can gather, but he seems rather intelligent.”

Jon’s expression turned sour. “And we’re also taking Littlefinger.”

Sansa frowned, but it had the movement of a repeated argument. “Jon, I’ve told you I don’t think that’s wise-”

“Like hell am I leaving him around you without someone to protect you.” Jon said.

“Lady Brienne is more than capable!” Sansa hissed.

“Aye, she’s a great warrior but I have no doubts he’ll find a way to you anyway!” Jon snapped. “Besides, I want to see what the little worm will try to get up to if we give him half a chance.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to catch him if he starts some scheme? I really think you’re just being overprotective.”

“I’ve already made my mind up, Sansa! He’s going to Dragonstone.” Jon turned to Davos, saying, “We leave for White Harbor at dawn in three days. From there, we’ll sail to Dragonstone. Be ready.”

“Of course, your Grace.” Davos replied. As Jon walked away, he turned back to Lady Sansa to bid her farewell, too. “If you’ll excuse me, my Lady.”

He was already stepping aways when Sansa’s hand caught his elbow. “Wait, Ser Davos!”

Startled, Davos turned to look at her as she shuffled a bit closer, voice low. “My brother is not naive,” she started, “I know that. I know he will do what he thinks is best for the North, and I trust him to do so.”

“However,” her voice shook just the tiniest bit, and her fingers tightened on his arm. She cleared her throat. “ _However_ , I do not trust him to do what is best for himself. He will put himself in danger to protect the North, I just know he will. Please, Ser Davos. I understand you’re not a warrior, but I ask this favor of you anyway: watch out for him. Keep Jon safe, in anyway you possibly can.”

To Davos’s alarm, he could see the shimmer of tears gather in the blue pools of Sansa’s eyes. “Of course, my Lady. I swear to you I will.” He said earnestly.

She sniffed delicately. “Thank you,” she sighed. “He’s my brother, you see. The only one I have, now. We-we’re all that’s left, and I just...I couldn’t bear to lose him, too.”

Sansa dabbed at the corners of her eyes, offering him a shaky smile. Davos couldn’t help but admire her strength as the veil of the perfect noble lady fell over her features again while she walked away to speak with a few of the lingering lords, as if she hadn’t been nearly crying just moments before.

Watching her flit from this lord to that, Davos couldn’t help but think how sad it must be, for such a lovely young lady to be so terribly lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are always super appreciated!! Trust me, I'm hungry for attention and validation all the time
> 
> If you want to chat about the story, fandom stuff, or really whatever you want, idc...come visit me on my [tumblr](https://raegaryen.tumblr.com) !!
> 
> \---Rae


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